


Wolves in the Dark

by TheEagleGirl



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Hate Sex, I feel like Cersei is her own trigger warning in this one, Jaimsa are sweet, Jonsei are not, Post Series, lets be real tho: enemies to enemies who ARE lovers, show verse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-03
Updated: 2019-03-02
Packaged: 2019-11-08 09:07:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17978432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheEagleGirl/pseuds/TheEagleGirl
Summary: Jon agrees to marry Cersei in order to avoid further war - the realm is tired, and so is he. Jaime agrees to stay as Sansa's hostage in the North to ensure his sister's word.Things become more complicated than they seem.





	Wolves in the Dark

**Author's Note:**

> Made for day 7 of asoiafrarepairs week on tumblr! This takes place in the show!verse.

There must be peace in the realm, Cersei says at the end of it all. Jaime is almost surprised to hear the words from her, so used to everything being a battle between the two of them. He’s almost expecting her to declare war on the North, now that the Others are dead and Daenerys perished fighting them.  _ I will rule all seven kingdoms, _ he remembers her saying a lifetime ago,  _ and kill those who stand in my way.  _

Impossibly, though, Cersei has changed over the last few months, in ways Jaime didn’t notice until now. The  _ war _ has changed her. She seems now more willing to make peace than he’s ever seen before. 

“The North will never join the Seven Kingdoms again,” Sansa Stark says, when his sister makes her pronouncement. Sansa looks as though she could be carved from marble, her cheeks hollow from the hunger and pain of winter, her face impassive. Still, Jaime can see her fist clenched on the table, the steel in her voice. “We are a free and independent country, for the rest of time.”

“Are you willing to fight for that?” Cersei asks. “Enter another war, after what we’ve just fought?”

“Are you?” Jon Snow returns from besides Sansa, challenge rising. “The North will do what we must, if it comes to that. We will not be subject to the Iron Throne ever again.”

Cersei leans back in her chair. Even here, among the half-starved soldiers, in a room full of Northmen itching to protect their freedoms, Cersei bares her teeth in the imitation of a smile, unafraid. Her golden hair glimmers in the light of early spring, streaming in from the dirty windows. She’s the most beautiful thing Jaime has ever seen, even here, even now. 

“Such heat,” she muses. There is something in the way she studies him that makes Jaime’s hair stand on the back of his neck. “Is that the Targaryen in you rising, Jon  _ Snow _ ? How will you survive without trade from the South? It’s not as though you’ll be able to feed your people after this war without aid.” She turns back to face them all. “There may be another way,” she says. “To maintain peace, for you Northerners to remain independent, to maintain trade lines with the rest of Westeros. A mutually beneficial way.”

  
  
  
  


“Your claim to the Iron Throne is stronger than mine,” Cersei says by way of explanation when they are alone. She stands near the window of Ned Stark’s solar, facing away from Jon. “My first husband Robert won the throne, and I held it once he and my sons died. I have almost no claim now that they are all dead. I was able to hold it when there were no other contenders for the throne, but with your parentage now public, your claim will destabilize my rule.”

“I don’t want the Iron Throne,” Jon says acidly. “Your weak claims will go uncontested.” He clutches the arms of his chair, certain that if he rises he will have no choice but to strangle her. 

“Ah,” Cersei retorts, “but there’s no telling what your children will want. Every time a Targaryen is born the gods flip a coin, after all, and Targaryens have never lacked for ambition. What better way to ensure the safety of the throne than to marry, unite house Lannister and Targaryen once and for all?”

“You would murder me in my sleep,” Jon says. 

“Only after we have a child."

“Can you still  _ have _ children?” he asks skeptically. 

“Yes,” Cersei says tightly, and Jon can see the question strike a nerve. “Though perhaps not for much longer, so time is of the essence. We would have to be married before we leave for King’s Landing.”

Jon tries to picture laying with this woman. Beautiful though she may be, Cersei Lannister has caused nothing but pain and misfortune to his family. He’s dreamed of killing her since he was still at the wall. For the peace of the realm, for a free North, can he marry this demon of a woman?

“And if I don’t agree to marry you?” Jon asks. 

Cersei meets his eyes. Green as wildfire, blazing like a furnace. When she speaks, she is soft, but the threat carries. “Then you’d better get used to sleeping with a knife underneath your pillow, Jon Snow. Because I will not allow a Targaryen to live while I am queen.”

Jon’s jaw clenches so hard he doesn’t think he can open his mouth enough to speak. “And the North will be free? You’ll provide food and trade to help heal the countryside? No more fighting?”

She smiles slowly, like a satisfied hunter. She has him. Jon knows, and she knows. 

  
  
  
  


Sansa finds Jaime during the wedding feast, such as it is. He’s outside the great hall, skin of ale swinging from his fist.

Jaime had wanted to be there, for Cersei. He’d given her away before the weirwood tree, watched Jon Snow drape the Targaryen cloak over her shoulders. He couldn’t stand the feast, though, with the somber air, and he knew he would never last through the bedding ceremony. He’s surprised to see Sansa Stark follow him out. 

Wordlessly, he offers the aleskin to her. She studies it for a moment, then takes it from his hand. “To Brienne,” she toasts, before downing a big gulp. She coughs at the end, before passing it back. 

“To Brienne,” Jaime echoes, “the truest knight Westeros has ever seen.” 

Sansa nods, looking away. Jaime lets her collect her composure as they sit in silence, takes the opportunity to study her. She’s very like her mother, especially in this light, but he can see Ned Stark in her as well, by the steel in her posture, the way she holds herself. He can almost hear her father’s voice when she turns to him and tells him, “You cannot go south with your sister.”

Jaime knew this was coming, that he’d never be allowed to go with Cersei again, but hearing someone say it to him nearly knocks the wind from his chest. “I know,” he says, and takes another long pull from his drink. The ale is bitter and warm on his tongue, but Jaime wants to get fabulously drunk tonight, so he never has to think again.

“I will not have my brother be a cuckold,” she says, turning to face him. Her eyes are what trap him, icy and blue. There is no judgement in them, but a warning. “His children must be  _ his _ children.”

“I know,” Jaime repeats, and he can hear the bitterness. “Cersei would not have me come back with her as it is. To secure her future on the throne she must put all rumors to rest. Having me in King’s Landing while she is married to a Targaryen would only destabilize her further.”

“Yes,” Sansa says, and takes the ale from him again. “And so you see my dilemma, Ser Jaime.”

“Your dilemma?” 

“What to do with you.”

Jaime wants to go home. To Casterly Rock. The Rock belongs to Tyrion now, scarred and burned now, with his new young wife, but Jaime thinks his brother would have him. 

“You’re going to stay here,” Sansa says, before Jaime can dream too much. “To ensure your sister’s good behavior.” 

She’s almost apologetic, but Jaime can tell her mind has been made up.

“If Cersei is determined to behave badly,” Jaime tells her, “having me as a hostage will not do much to dissuade her.”

“I think you underestimate her love for you,” Sansa says. “You’re all she has left, until she has a child.  _ If _ that is something she can still do, that is. She’s not the young woman she once was, and she lost a child right before the war, did she not?”

Jaime feels his face curve into a sneer, teeth bared. “Are you so determined to play this game, Lady Stark?”

Sansa stands. “I’ve always hated that. This is not a game. It never has been to me. But I will do what I must to keep my brother safe from Cersei. He’s all I have left as well.”

Jaime scoffs. “So I am to be a hostage now?  _ Your _ hostage?”

“Don’t worry, ser,” she says, “you’ll be treated far better than I was by your sister.” And with that, she is gone, back into the steaming halls of Winterfell.

  
  
  
  


Cersei Lannister wasn’t meant to be loved. Jon doesn’t think he ever could, and he knows she doesn’t want that from him. 

Jon remembers the first time he’d ever seen the queen. It was years ago, when his family was still whole—she’d come to Winterfell with Robert and his court. Jon remembers watching her step down from the wheelhouse, a proud, beautiful woman with long golden hair and her chin held high. She had spared Jon a glance out in the courtyard, and when she’d studied him, he’d had the distinct impression that Cersei Lannister was  _ laughing _ at him--amused that the honorable Ned Stark could have a bastard son living under his roof. 

Jon had hated being laughed at back then. He made up his mind then and there, kneeling in Winterfell’s front yard, that he didn’t like the queen. The Lannisters could rot, for all he cared. 

That dislike festered into hatred when Jon was at the Wall, when he heard of Ned Stark’s death. When he left the wall, fought to get Winterfell back, the Lannisters were his enemies. It was a fact to Jon, and held the same amount of truth as the fact that winter was cold and the sky was blue.  _ She _ was the enemy.

Jon thought he would have a hard time putting away his hatred for long enough to bed her. When he’s delivered into his chambers that night, though, and sees Cersei--his _ wife _ , now--he realizes that the more shameful thing is that it’s  _ not _ hard to picture fucking her at all. She is old enough to be his mother, but her body still holds temptation. She knows it, if the way she drapes herself across his father’s chair is any indication. Her shift leaves little to the imagination in the candlelight, and Jon finds himself swallowing. 

She’s gorgeous, he acknowledges-- _ evil _ , certainly, but beautiful too--in a proud, untouchable way. 

The silence between them stretches out, and for a long, terse moment, Jon thinks this will be a silent affair. Perhaps this is preferrable, though. He’s not sure he appreciates meaningless talk tonight. 

The moment shatters when Cersei stretches and stands, before making her way across the room and to him. Her hair glimmers golden. Jon wonders if it’s soft, or hard and sharp, like the thin smile on her face.

“You know,” she says, “I do wonder what Ned Stark would say, to see his beloved son married off to me, in his very own godswood. Bedding me in his old chambers.”

Jon has been wondering the same thing. He’s determined not to speak to her, to get this done quickly without making it harder than it has to be, but Jon finds himself speaking. “He would be horrified,” he tells her gruffly. “Even as a child, watching him around you, I could tell. My father couldn’t stand you.”

“The feeling,” Cersei says, and Jon feels her hand come to snake around his head, pull his hair, “was mutual.”

When she pulls him down for a kiss, it feels more as though Jon has entered a battle than a bedchamber. He is determined not to match her, though, stays still as she bites his lip and scratches at his back. Her shift is off quickly, though Jon cannot recall how she untied it so quickly to pool around her ankles. It doesn’t  _ matter _ , he reminds himself. He’s here for a reason, and the faster this is over, the sooner he can leave. He’s determined to finish this quickly, and so he backs her onto the furs, gets on top of her.

For a moment, Jon thinks this means he’s  _ won _ now that she’s beneath him on the bed--as if it would be that simple to defeat Cersei Lannister, the woman who brought the seven kingdoms to its knees. He tells himself that he’s going to be quick now--as quick as he can, under the circumstances--and then he can  _ leave _ and drink away the rest of the night in comfortable disgust with himself. 

It comes as a surprise, then, when Cersei bites his bottom lip hard enough to make him pull back and hiss. She grabs him, hard, through his breeches.

“Take this off.” The command is strong, and the insolent part of Jon wants to refuse, to push her hand away and prove that  _ he _ doesn’t have to listen to her, not here. That would defeat the purpose of getting a child on her, though, which is what he’s come here to do, so Jon pushes away from her slowly, testing his lip to make sure there’s no blood. 

_ Do it fast, and then you can leave, _ Jon tells himself. He has a duty to perform, and he cannot imagine Cersei wants this to last long either. 

She catches him off balance, when he’s pulling off his breeches, enough so that Jon falls when her hands push at his shoulders, enough so that when she lowers herself on top of him, Jon is stunned at the suddenness of it. 

“Your Grace,” he begins, confused, “what are you--”

Jon chokes off when she puts her hand around his cock. He’s not hard yet, not fully, but her hand pumps him in a slow, lazy motion, and he can feel himself stiffening. 

“You’re easier to seduce than your father, you know,” she says, almost conversationally. Jon can barely process the words before she squeezes. 

Her meaning sinks in only when he’s caught his breath, and then he gapes up at her. “My father  _ never _ ,” he starts, only to be cut off by her laugh.

“Oh, no,” she tells him, green eyes glinting like wildfire in the light. “I certainly tried, though. Old honorable Ned, honorable to a fault. It’s what killed him, you know. What made him weak.” She lowers her mouth to Jon’s ear. “Are you anything like that, Jon Snow? Or do you have your  _ real _ father’s blood in you somewhere, the blood of a man who takes what he wants?”

Jon grits his teeth, frustratingly hard against her palm, but  _ angry _ . It’s hard to stay still, to be gentle and quick when she speaks about his father--his  _ fathers-- _ this way. She  _ wants _ a reaction from him, he can see that, and by the old gods he’s  _ not  _ going to give it to her.

Cersei’s smile cuts like a knife in the dark, “Do you think,” she wonders, and she’s moving into position above him now, sinking onto him with a little exhale. Jon stays completely still under her, fists clenched into the sheet beneath him. Cersei moves above him, lifting up and coming back down  _ slowly _ . Jon fights the urge to buck up, grips tighter. “Do you think,” she repeats, “that old, honorable,  _ weak, _ Eddard Stark fucked Catelyn this way? Limp and lifeless as a wet towel?” She sneers at him from above. Jon can feel the heat rush in his chest.

“Shut up,” he grits out. Cersei leans over, hands on his shoulders. Her nails dig in, and she scrapes them down his chest. Jon’s skin burns.

“And dearest Rhaegar,” she continues, “was he so dull when he fucked your mother in that tower of theirs?” She clucks her tongue. “Poor girl.”

Jon’s hands twitch against the sheets. It’s maddening, between the slow pace she’s setting and the vitriol dripping from her mouth. He can’t choose what to focus on, and he tries unsuccessfully to tamp down the anger rising in him.

“Those poor  _ girls _ ,” Cersei corrects, voice sweet as poison. “Let’s not forget Catelyn. If those two had to deal with men as lifeless as you, it’s no wonder they were so rigid. I know you were killed, Snow, but that’s really no excuse.”

Jon groans, halfway between a protest and a moan.

“But then,” she continues, a different note in her voice, “there  _ are _ those who say Rhaegar stole Lyanna away. How do you think he fucked your mother, Jon Snow? Lifeless and dull, obsessed with his prophecy, or did he at least fuck her well when he raped her?”

Jon goes cold when she says that. His hands loosen from the sheets, and he says, dangerously controlled, “Shut. Up.”

Cersei’s smile spreads slowly across her face. “You can certainly try to make me.”

When Jon flips her over, he knows he’s just giving her what she wanted from him--a reaction--but he’s beyond caring, or playing her game. He holds her wrists above her head as he drives into her, hard enough that Jon hears Cersei catch her breath. 

“There’s that fire,” Cersei breathes, and Jon has had  _ enough _ of her speaking. He pulls one of his hands away from her wrists, and rests it against her throat, his thumb tipping her chin up to catch her eyes.

This is the woman who ruined his life, he realizes all at once. Like this, moving beneath him, she doesn’t look like a monster.  _ This  _ is the woman whose indiscretions caused Ned Stark to go down the path to the truth, the path to his death. Everything that has happened to his family is, in part, due to her. He could squeeze his hand and end it. For some reason, the thought spurns him on, and he thrusts into her harder.

With her right arm freed from under his grasp, Jon can feel Cersei’s hand move between their bodies, rub between her legs. She lets out a high keening noise, head thrown back, when Jon sucks a bruise onto her throat.

He comes before she does, hand still at her neck. She’s not far behind, though, if her breathless gasp and arched back are any indication. 

Once coherent thought returns, the shame hits Jon like a wave. He can’t believe he--he was too rough, he didn’t mean to  _ react _ to her this way. Her wrist is red when he releases it. 

His plan had torn to pieces. Jon had been determined to do his  _ duty _ tonight, nothing more, but he never meant for this. He feels dirty somehow, as if he’s betrayed his family by responding so emotionally to her taunts. Even with Ygritte and Daenerys he had never been so rough…

Jon wonders for a moment if he’s hurt Cersei before he realizes he shouldn’t care. The things she said...he is tempted to leave without another word, but...that is not how his father taught him to treat women. He must apologize before he goes.

“I am sorry, Your Grace,” Jon says stiffly, “if you are hurt.”

Cersei’s brow raises, and her mouth twitches. “You wouldn’t be capable of hurting me if you tried, Snow.” She stretches lazily, like a cat.

Jon looks away. 

“Surprisingly,” she continues, and Jon feels her foot nudge his side, “you’re not that bad of a fuck when you try. Do endeavor to try, from now on. Or shall I bring up your dead parents every time you come to my chambers?”

He’s had enough. Jon stands swiftly, and pulls his breeches off the edge of the bed, where he’d discarded them. “Don’t do that again,” he tells her, pulling them on. 

Cersei laughs, throwing her head back. Again, her beauty surprises him. She shouldn’t be beautiful, not when her words drip venom and her commands have killed thousands. “Don’t make me,” she says, an edge to her tone. “I’ve been married once before, and I am done being the woman who bows to her husband and gets nothing in return.” 

“We are married so that we may conceive an heir for the throne,” Jon hisses. “What happened tonight was unnecessary.”

Cersei scoffs, and sits up, studying him in the low light. “Perhaps,” she says. Her eyes glint. “But it was enjoyable, once you stopped being dull.” She studies him from top to bottom. Her lips curl into a slow smile. “I offered to fuck Ned Stark once, you know. Honorable fool that he was, he refused me and went on to commit treason, denounce my children before the court before Robert was even cold in his deathbed. I think he would have gasped like a maiden if he saw the way you behaved tonight.”

Jon finishes tying his laces. “I was doing my duty,” he tells her. “My father would understand that.”

When he straightens up, Cersei has come to stand before him, her face inches away from his. There is hate in her eyes, a mirror of his, Jon is sure. Without looking away, she ghosts her fingers across his chest—against his will, he shivers—as she gently traces the scratches she left there. 

“Ah,” she sneers, “well, you’ll be a good lad and do your duty again tomorrow night, won’t you? And every night until we have an heir.”

Yes, he will do his duty. Jon leaves her there, laughing at him. He will do his duty and  _ only _ that, and he swears to himself that what happened tonight—how he lost control—that will never happen again. 

As he settles into his own chambers, though, Jon remembers his sister’s words.  _ Don’t underestimate her. Cersei always gets what she wants, in the end _ .

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked this, please let me know in the comments!


End file.
